


Brothers in Arms

by Anais (phoebesmum), phoebesmum



Category: Battlestar Galactica (1978)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/Anais, https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning of a beautiful friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in _Voices III_ (Starlight Press), September 1987.

He could see them.

Standing to rigid attention in the long line of cadets, shoulders back, eyes fixed, unswerving, on some remote, unfocused point directly ahead of him, still he could see them. He could see the glances, hear the whispers. Or, at least, he could sense them. He didn't really have to hear them. He had heard it all before.

"That's him, over there, the dark-haired one there – that's Adama's son."

"Adama? _Commander_ Adama?"

"How many Adamas do you think there are, frakwit?"

The reflective pause, the appraising, critical stare, then, "So, what's _he_ doing _here?_ "

It was always the same.

What he was doing there was training to be a warrior; his chosen vocation. Chosen, that was, not by himself but by who and by what he was. He had been destined for the Academy since the day he was born – no, since before that, long before; since the first prenatal scan had told Adama's wife that the child she bore within her was a boy, a son to carry on her husband's millennia-old family tradition. He had been destined for this, as he had been bound to attend certain schools, to attain certain grades, to excel at certain subjects and to pass over certain others. As he was bound …

… bound. Bound in the chains of family duty; bound by shackles of loyalty and love as strong and inescapable as any of slavery. Bound to be mindful of his family name; bound to uphold the family pride, the family honour.

Adama's son drew himself up yet more, scarcely daring to let himself breathe, as the master sergeant inspecting the ranks reached him and paused before him. The older man's eyes raked the younger up and down: searching, ruthless, hostile. The rest of the class seemed to hold its collective breath in a hush of expectancy; a few of the more daring might have nudged one another in the ribs, knowing that they were, for a micron, safe from the instructor's all-seeing eye. Now it would come, they seemed to say, and not, Sagan be praised, to them. They were safe – this time – to enjoy the all-too-familiar Academy ritual.

"You!" the sergeant eventually snapped out. "Cadet – what do they call you?"

"Apollo," the boy answered, quick and concise, and was careful to add, "Sir!"

The instructor stared right at him, a look of studied, infinite disgust on his face. "Lords of Kobol," he murmured, as if to himself, "what they're sending us nowadays! How they expect us to win the war with this kind of refuse … Straighten up, cadet!" he suddenly snapped, interrupting himself. Apollo couldn't have stood any straighter if he'd tried. He tried anyway.

"Scum," the sergeant muttered. "That's what they're sending us. Do you hear me, boy?"

"Yes, sir," Apollo answered; his voice was carefully neutral. The sergeant stared at him, as if incredulous, and stepped closer, almost face to face.

"Do you understand me?" he demanded. "I said, scum. What are you, cadet?"

Somewhere inside the rigid figure a quiet, sensitive, somewhat shy boy was cringing in shame, fighting back tears of anger and humiliation that in this life he would never be free to shed, but Apollo only stared carefully past the sergeant, determinedly keeping his face expressionless, and said, calmly, "Scum, sir."

His father had warned him. The instructors were tough with the cadets – had to be; it was the only way to weed out the soft and the weak, the ones who wouldn't make the grade. It was nothing personal. If you didn't let it get to you, you'd be fine. So Adama had said in his last communication, and maybe he was right. Only Apollo knew that he wasn't, not this time. His father's name made all the difference.

To be the son of the great Commander Adama meant one thing and one thing only to most people: a soft life, an easy life, sheltered and privileged, everything handed to him on a salver. They didn't know, didn't understand, _couldn't_ understand.

Distracted, he hadn't heard the sergeant's last few words and he started as the man's angry voice suddenly hit him as tangibly as a slap in the face.

"Am I boring you, cadet?"

"No, sir!" Apollo replied quickly.

"Then repeat my last words to me."

The sergeant waited. Apollo was silent. A few microns crawled agonisingly by, and then the instructor said, "Well?"

Apollo shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I've forgotten them." He had lost this round, and he knew it. So did the sergeant, and for the first time he smiled, a small, unpleasant smile of triumph. Apollo looked away, reminded unpleasantly of a lupus about to pounce on an ovine.

"Forgotten them?" the sergeant echoed, feigning incredulity. "Not paying attention, perhaps, were we, cadet? Better things on our mind, had we?" He moved in still closer, resting his hand almost casually on Apollo's shoulder. "Or perhaps the son of Adama knows it all already? Learned it at his mother's knee, maybe? Perhaps there's nothing we can teach Cadet Apollo?" The grip tightened painfully. "Perhaps," the man said, slowly, deliberately, "perhaps the Academy's a bit of a waste of his precious time? H'mm?"

"No, sir," Apollo said quietly. He met the man's eyes, searching in vain for some ground for common understanding. "I came here to learn, sir."

At that the sergeant smiled again, grimly, and let his hand fall. "Oh, you'll learn," he promised, soft-voiced. "You'll learn, boy. You can be very certain of that." He stepped back, looked the cadet up and down one final, disdainful time, then moved off down the ranks. Apollo let out a long breath. It was over, and he had survived. It was the first step.

Inspection finally over, the sergeant left them and the cadets broke formation to cluster together in their individual groups. Apollo found himself left alone and turned to make his way to the dormitories, only to find his path blocked. There were eight of them. He didn't know their names. One of them, obviously their ringleader – a blond, skinny kid who Apollo had already marked in his own mind as the class troublemaker – stepped forward and came up to him, facing him, staring him aggressively eye to eye. They were much the same height, probably about the same age. That, Apollo thought, was all they had in common.

"So that's who you are," the blond boy said, aiming the words like an insult. "Commander Adama's son, huh?"

Apollo met the hostile gaze impassively. "You heard the sergeant," he said. There was no point in denying it; it was the truth. And in any case, why should he? He wasn't ashamed of who he was.

"The famous Commander Adama's son," the blond boy said again, with a quick glance around to make sure of his audience. "You don't look much like him."

Apollo shrugged, saying nothing. The other kids wanted a fight; he didn't. He'd never been much of a one for fighting, had never seen the point. There were at least two sides to most questions, and almost any difference could be talked through. If he didn't react, he figured the blond boy and his friends would soon get bored and go away.

"So, if you're Adama's son, how come you ended up here with the rest of us?" the boy was saying, sneering. "How come he didn't just buy you your own Battlestar?"

A couple of the other boys laughed. Apollo looked at them, then back at the ringleader. "It doesn't work that way," he said flatly, though pleasantly enough, and made to walk away. "If that's all you wanted to know, maybe you'll excuse me - ?"

The boys standing in his way glanced to their leader. He nodded, and they parted to let Apollo through. As he walked away, the blond kid said loudly, "Then again, maybe he's not that bothered about you."

 _Keep walking_ , Apollo told himself. _Don't listen_.

"You sure don't look _anything_ like him."

 _Walk. Keep going._

"I don't guess the Commander gets home to Caprica too often," the boy said. "Sure must get boring for his old lady."

Apollo stopped walking and swung back. "Spell that out," he told the blond boy. His voice was very quiet.

The other boy opened his eyes wide and spread out his hands, the picture of innocence. "Spell what?" he asked.

Apollo stared him in the eye a moment, then turned away again. _Let it go_ , he told himself. _Just let it go. It's only talk. What can it hurt?_

"'cept I'd've never thought _Adama's_ son would've given up so easy," the other boy said. "I'd've never thought Adama's son would be yellow – _oh!_ " The last was a grunt of surprise as Apollo, suddenly furious, spun back and made a dive for him, catching him off-balance and knocking him to the ground, landing heavily across him. The fair-haired boy recovered quickly and fought back, aiming a wild blow and feeling his knuckles connect with bone. Apollo fell back and the other kid scrambled up on hands and knees, straightened, then made a rush for him. Apollo sidestepped neatly at the last moment, lashing out with a foot and sending the boy flying again, then dived after him, dragging him up and driving his fist squarely into his face. There was blood on the blond boy's mouth, Apollo noted with satisfaction, and aimed another blow, but the boy twisted away, recovered, and counterattacked. This time it was Apollo who went down, the blond boy following, both struggling to get a clear blow at one another. Strength for strength they were pretty evenly matched, and for a few microns the fight seemed deadlocked.

It might all have lasted longer than the few centons it actually did if the master sergeant had got a little further away from the inspection ground. The sounds of the scuffle, and the cheers and cries of encouragement from the bystanders told their own familiar story, making him pull up abruptly, then turn and hurry back, pulling out his comm unit and alerting security as he ran.

The inevitable crowd had gathered. The instructor elbowed his way through to the centre, pausing for a micron to take stock of the two figures locked together in a fierce struggle on the ground, then strode forward, grabbed them both by the collars of their uniform tunics, and dragged them apart and to their feet by main force. He kept his grip on them, holding them apart from one another, looking from one blood- and dirt-stained face to the other as he watched the fight slowly begin to drain away from them and gradual awareness of their situation start to dawn. His habitual frown grew deeper as he recognised the boys – he might, he thought, have guessed it'd be those two – but he said nothing. This would be a matter for the CO to deal with.

Security had arrived. Still without a word, the sergeant pushed the two cadets each toward a guard and started toward the administration building, jerking his head to indicate that the boys should follow him. Reluctantly they did so, their guards bringing up the rear. As if by a miracle, he noted, the crowd of cadets which had gathered to watch the fight had completely vanished.

Outside the CO's office, the sergeant spoke for the first time. "Wait here," he said to the cadets then, to the guards, "Watch them." He pressed the commander's entry request, and went in.

Apollo glanced sidelong, warily, at the other boy. Unexpectedly, he caught the other simultaneously glancing at him. Suddenly the blond boy didn't seem quite so sure of himself any more. He managed a crooked, semi-apologetic smile, and Apollo almost laughed at his rueful expression.

"Your nose is still bleeding," he whispered.

The other boy put up a hand and touched the sticky wetness that was streaming down his face. "So it is," he observed, looking a little surprised. "I hadn't even noticed. Thanks." He tried unsuccessfully to wipe the blood away with his sleeve, then sniffed hard and tipped his head back. Apollo watched for a moment, then could stand it no more.

"No," he told him, "not like that. Look – " He reached into his jacket for a tissue and, with a quick look at the guards, who were watching with what he took to be amused tolerance, passed it across to the blond boy. Lean your head forward – not back – and press down hard, just here – " He demonstrated with his own hand. The other looked at him curiously, only his eyes visible over the tissue.

"You sound like quite an expert," he said, muffled.

Apollo shrugged and offered him a tentative smile. "This isn't quite the first fight I've been in," he admitted. The voice of reason and moderation was not, after all, always as effective as might be hoped.

There was a short burst of laughter from behind the tissue. "I could tell that!" the other boy said. "And I thought you'd be a pushover. Just goes to show how wrong you can be, huh?"

"Everybody makes mistakes," Apollo said softly.

The blond boy straightened, sniffed cautiously a few times, then wadded the tissue up into a ball and tossed it at a nearby trashcan. "I guess," he agreed, and looked Apollo straight in the eye. "Even me."

What might have been intended to be an apology was interrupted by the opening of the commander's door. The master sergeant came out, fixing his glare on the two cadets.

"You," he snapped, gesturing Apollo toward him. "Get in here – the commander wants to see you." Then he looked at the other boy. "You can go – this time. Make it the last. You won't be so lucky again." He turned back to the door, pushing Apollo ungently in front of him.

Apollo felt his heart sink. He didn't know what was in store for him, but it was easy to guess. There'd been other scenes like this, plenty of them: because of who he was, because of his father. For others there might be the benefit of the doubt, but no-one, none of his instructors, had ever wanted to be seen showing favour to the son of one of the Colonies's greatest men. He should know better, they told him, he should set an example, be the model student. And he tried – lords knew, he tried – but he wasn't Adama; he was only human, just like anyone else, and, like anyone else, capable of human error. And now it looked as though the Academy wasn't going to be any different. Maybe even worse. There were people here who actually knew his father. They'd be expecting even more of him. And no-one here was going to lay themselves open to charges of favouritism, not for him. How could they? Why should they?

The sergeant pushed him again, and Apollo stepped forward to face his commanding officer, looking up into a face as set and stern as his father's own. He pulled his shoulders straight, as he had in inspection, meeting the older man's eyes determinedly, knowing that he owed it to his family to accept the consequences of his actions without flinching, as though he were a warrior already –

\- and then he felt someone brush past him, storming up to the commander's desk.

"You can't do this!" a familiar voice declared passionately. "You've got it all wrong – _he_ didn't start the fight, _I_ did. He didn't do anything – this isn't fair!"

The commander rose slowly to his feet, gazing thoughtfully down into the flushed, blood-streaked face of the young blond cadet who was leaning across his desk, confronting him.

"I believe I dismissed you, cadet," he observed, without heat.

The cadet straightened. "You did," he said, then added hastily, "sir! But you've got it all wrong – I had to say something – I mean, I couldn't – you can't – I mean, it just wouldn't be _right!_ Sir."

The commander looked across at Apollo. "How about you?" he asked. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

Apollo hesitated, unsure of what to say. "I – " he started, then stopped again. The blame hadn't exactly been one-sided. If only he'd kept his temper! "I hit him first," he finally admitted. "I guess it was my fault."

"But I provoked you!" the other boy burst out. "I practically made you do it! At least it wasn't _all_ your fault, and they can't say it is – they just can't!" he finished fiercely, almost glaring at the commander.

For a moment there was silence. Then, unexpectedly, the commander laughed.

"We seem to have a stalemate," he observed, and he looked from one boy to the other. "You do realise, I assume, that you could be dismissed from the Academy for fighting – both of you?"

The blond boy nodded, but held his ground. "But you can't just blame him," he said again.

The commander resumed his seat, leaning back and thoughtfully observing the boys' expressions: one quietly, frozenly resigned to the worst, one burning with anger and resentment; both very obviously scared as hell, and both just as obviously trying hard to hide the fact. Two very different characters, he thought, but united in this. And at that he smiled, inspiration coming to him.

"Very well," he announced. "Since I can see that the truth of this matter is highly unlikely ever to come to light, on this occasion I'll be lenient and merely demerit you both. I'm sure the Sergeant can think of an appropriate punishment detail." He noted with well-concealed amusement the way both boys winced involuntarily, then went on, "Further, and in the interests of preventing a recurrence of this … incident … as of this centon, you will consider yourselves assigned to one another until further notice. You'll share the same quarters, be assigned to the same classes, the same exercises, and, when the time comes, to the same training squadron. You'll be a team – and that means you work together, no more fighting." He looked hard at them again. "Understood?"

The boys glanced at each other doubtfully for a micron or two. Then, as one, they nodded and chorused, "Yes, sir."

The commander permitted himself a small smile. "Very well," he said. "Dismissed." Then a thought seemed to occur to him and he amended, "No – Cadet Apollo, remain behind a centon." Catching the other boy's sudden suspicious glare, the commander had to hide a grin. "Dismissed, cadet," he repeated firmly and, with a final, dubious, backward scowl, the boy departed, the sergeant following him.

Left alone, the commander looked up at Apollo, "Relax," he advised quietly. "I'm on your side, boy, believe it or not. I'm not about to throw you out of the Academy – that was what you were afraid of, wasn't it?"

The cadet barely nodded, relief making him weak. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

The commander stood again and came around his desk to Apollo's side, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I know your father," he said. "You know that doesn't mean I'll make it easy on you – you've heard that before, I take it?"

"Every place I've been," Apollo said, "sir!" And in a sudden rush of honesty, he burst out, "I don't ask to have it made easy, sir – but do they _have_ to make it harder instead?"

The commander gave him a sympathetic look. "It's tough, I know. You've got a lot to live up to. But you're good, boy, I've seen it. You'll be fine. Work hard, try to stay out of trouble – what else can I tell you? And, as I said, no more fights."

"I didn't – " Apollo began, taken unawares, then stopped, reddening. The commander laughed again.

"I thought not. That was all I wanted to know. You're dismissed, Apollo. And – off the record – good luck."

"Thank you, sir," Apollo said, and hurriedly made good his escape.

The blond boy was waiting as Apollo left the office, falling easily into step beside it as if he had done so all his life.

"Okay?" he asked quietly. Apollo nodded.

"Okay," he said, then stopped, turning to face the other boy. "Thanks."

The boy shrugged. "For what? Hey, forget it. What else could I do?" Then he smiled. "I mean – you're my partner, right?"

Apollo nodded again. "Right – partner."

They had walked on a little way in silence when suddenly, abruptly, the blond boy said, "I still don't get it. I saw the looks on their faces – the sarge and the old man – they were really going to let you have it, weren't they?"

"I guess," Apollo said, noncommittally. He would have preferred to forget the whole thing, if he could.

"But … I mean, don't they know?"

"Know what?"

The boy looked vaguely embarrassed. "Oh … you know. Who your father is."

Apollo looked away. "They know," he admitted.

The other kid wouldn't let it go. "Then why - ?" he persisted.

"That _is_ why," Apollo said at last. His companion was silent for a few microns.

"Oh," was all he eventually said. Evidently the thought would never have occurred to him. "But … even so, wouldn't he just bail you out? Your father, I mean? They're his friends and all, right?"

"I haven't seen my father in over two yahren," Apollo told him quietly. "He sent me a vidgram when I was accepted to the Academy," he added hastily, not wishing to sound disloyal. "But he has his own problems. He doesn't fight my battles."

"Oh," the other boy said again. He appeared to consider this for a while. "That's tough," he finally said. "I never thought of it that way – I didn't – "

Apollo turned away and walked on, dismissing the subject. "I'm lucky to have a father," he said. "Even if I don't see him all that often, he's there, and I know he cares about me. That's important to me, and I'm thankful for it."

The other boy caught him up. "I'm an orphan," he told Apollo. "I don't remember my parents."

"I'm sorry."

The boy shrugged it away. "Don't be. I've never known it any other way. Maybe …"

"Maybe what?" Apollo asked, as the boy hesitated.

"Maybe I'm the lucky one, at that," the blond boy said. "I don't have anyone to look up to – no-one expecting me to follow in their footsteps, no-one to be disappointed in me if I flunk out … no-one – " He hesitated again, then finished, "No-one jumping on me because of who I am."

Apollo's gaze fell. "It doesn't matter," he said, on a sigh.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't let it. There was a wall between him and the world that judged him by his father. Brick by brick he had built it since the first day he had met that prejudice, and now it was strong, solid. If it hurt, you didn't show it; if you cared, you never let them know. If you didn't expect anything, you'd never be disappointed. What you never had, you'd never miss.

It was safe behind his wall; it was his shield, his fortress. And oh, gods, it was so lonely!

The other boy's hand touched his shoulder hesitantly. "Apollo?"

"Yeah?"

"It does matter," the boy said. "I was wrong about you, and I'm sorry."

Apollo looked back, forcing a smile, but there was something in the fair-haired cadet's eyes – a warmth, a promise – that unexpectedly breached his defences and turned the smile to a real one. The boy held out his hand.

"Friends?" he asked, almost shyly.

Apollo's smile widened, and he grasped the proffered hand in his own. "Friends," he affirmed.

It was dangerous to care; it got you hurt. But looking into the blond kid's blue eyes he had discovered there, deep within, something he had never thought to find. Something new, unexpected.

Kinship.

"To the death!" the other boy declared dramatically, and Apollo laughed. "Gods," he said fervently, "I hope not!"

The other boy grinned; it lit his whole face, magical, irresistible. "Me too," he admitted. "But I just thought it sounded good, you know?"

Apollo nodded, still smiling. "Yeah," he agreed, "I guess it does." Then something occurred to him. "You know?" he told the blond boy, "I don't even know your name …?"

The boy looked faintly surprised. "I guess I never thought to tell you," he said, and he laughed. "I get distracted real easy. It's Starbuck. My name's Starbuck."

"Starbuck," Apollo repeated, carefully committing the name to memory. He'd better get used to it, he thought. He had a feeling he'd be using it a lot in the days to come.

***


End file.
